


When We Say Family, We Say Grief

by profmeteor



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (TV 2003)
Genre: Angst, Episode: s03e21 Same As It Never Was, Frottage, Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-10 23:21:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1165799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/profmeteor/pseuds/profmeteor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thirty years of missing someone can build up. Some desperate frottage set the night before the turtles take on the Shredder in SAINW, written for Porn Battle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When We Say Family, We Say Grief

**Author's Note:**

> I'm assuming here that they had at least a day/night to get everything ready for the attack. Title is from [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VHoT4N43jK8).

Nowhere is really safe anymore. Raphael feels exposed, even in the heart of the rebel compound, stuffed inside of the tunneler where the only eyes that could watch him would be Donatello's. He's a walking toothache. The last thirty years have turned him into someone else--or maybe they just have compressed him until he’s become the most concentrated version of himself.

He's learned how to live with it, or thought he did. Donatello, kneeling among a tangle of wires, might as well be pressing a thumb to the heart of him. Every inch of him aches.

"Really, the tune-up isn't necessary," Donatello says, "since we're not looking at long-term use, but better safe than sorry, right? Don’t want to break down right outside the Shredder’s tower."

"Sure." Raphael chews on his tongue. His hands are in his pockets, where he can touch at the handles of his sai and pretend he’s a conqueror. It's not doing much for him now. "Look--Don--you really think we can win this?"

Donatello takes his time on that one, shifting, turning his whole focus onto Raph. "Of course we can," he says, finally. "We're together again. We can do this. Between us and April...heck, even that creep Stockman has been a huge help." He stands; the cords of his belt sway against his legs. "All we need to do is stay alive long enough to get the Shredder into position. Easy peasy."

When he puts it like that, it almost takes the edge off. Better than a drink, that's for sure. Raph shrugs. "Makes sense," he says, not adding _in theory._ He's too happy Donnie's back, too desperate to believe they can do this. Maybe they can even be a family again, once the blood’s dried--he's been alone for so long he's not sure he remembers how to be a brother.

Donatello steps over the underbrush of wires and into Raph's space. He rests his hands on his shoulders. "We can do this," he says.

"Right, but if we can't--just, listen." Raph doesn't know what to grab, so he settles for Donnie's wrist. "If we can't, I want ya to know that I--that you're my brother, and I always..." The words catch in his throat.

"Aw, heck, Raph." Donnie wraps his arms around his neck and _squeezes._ Raph lets out a shuddering breath. "I know."

Raph embraces Donnie, too grateful to speak. Some things are difficult to voice: He's found himself in foxholes and workshops and deep, silent forests, but there will always be a part of him that can't quite articulate the things he needs to say. Donnie knows, at least. He's always been good at that. A real sensitive guy, and mellow enough to let this kind of thing flow over them. Sensitive enough for the both of them.

He presses his face against Donnie's neck. Maybe this is all he really wanted: Closure, a body to hold, someone to whom he can say goodbye. He spent so long searching--in labor camps, in prisons, in research facilities, in back alleys and shadows and rubble and clouds--and now here Donnie is, in the flesh, smelling like he always used to, like a home he hasn't had in decades. Raph wants it all. He wants to slough away the last thirty years. He wants Casey, and Master Splinter, and April, and Leo and Mikey and Klunk and his old punching bag and Donnie; he wants Donatello most of all, and he can have him if he just holds on.

He presses, and presses, and then he is backing Donnie further into the tunneler, he is flat against him, chest-to-chest, leg-to-leg, mouth-to-neck. Donnie tenses. His hand cups the side of Raph’s face, and he thumbs the scar under his eye. He breathes out, somewhere between a sigh and a shiver, and tightens his grip. 

"It's okay," Donnie murmurs, "it's alright."

It's not. Raph knows better than to do this. He kisses his neck, then again, and again, and it's so smooth against his chapped lips that he doesn't ever want to stop. He doesn't understand why Donnie is letting him do this. Raph has had decades to miss him, thousands of pent-up conversations, years of memories that have built into a twisting staircase that leads to a brighter version of Donatello, an unreal one composed of all of the good and none of the awkward or bad. Of course Raph wants to kiss him. He is ugly in comparison, a scarred husk, good for nothing but war and hardly even that.

But Donatello noses at Raph's shoulder and presses a tentative kiss of his own, slow, almost chaste. It's the puff of his breath on Raph's shoulder that cinches it, in the end, something he can barely even feel through his coat. It's Donnie's breath. Don's. He's alive, and warm, and flush against Raph, and he's not arguing or telling Raph that he is wrong to need this, and there is no one watching them here. It's the closest thing to safe Raph will ever have.

"C'mere," Raph says, the word scraping at Donnie's neck. A hot coil flicks on in his gut. He might mistake it for anger, if he were younger. He slides his hands down Donnie's unmarred shell and cups the back of his thighs, yanking him closer. "Don, you were gone so long." He nips at his throat. Under the sensitive skin, Donatello’s pulse thrums. "So fuckin' long,” he says, “and I thought I'd never--"

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, it was just--one second I was gone, and then suddenly I was here, and I--I'd never--ow!" Raph bites his jaw, hard. No mistaking _that_ for anything other than anger; he won't let Donatello blame himself for this.

"Doesn't matter," he growls. He grinds his hips against Donnie's, kissing at the spot on his jaw that must be aching. "You're here."

"I mean it," Donnie says. He grabs Raph's face, forces him to look, forces him to focus. Raph thrusts against him, deliberate, nearly fifty and still bristling when someone tells him what to do. "I would never abandon you guys. _Never._ "

Raph kisses him hard enough to hide the rush at that, the tightening in his chest that he can't even begin to parse. He hooks one of Donnie's legs around his back, keeps his hands busy, keeps his mouth busy, tries to quiet down his heart. It's obvious Donnie's not used to this, to kissing like this--he clutches the lapel of Raph's coat and hangs on, kissing and panting. He opens his mouth when Raph's tongue flicks at his bottom lip, then chokes when Raph pushes in. They try again, this time Donnie flicking his tongue out, gasping and trying to apologize before Raph can shut him up with his mouth.

At least he knows what to do with his hips, grinding with shallow thrusts, and he makes a soft noise in his throat when Raph's hand dips between them. He's not hard, yet, when Raph strokes a finger along his cloaca, but he drops right away, sinking into Raph's hand with a low moan. "That's it," Raph mutters between aimless kisses. "Just let me--jeez, Donnie. Christ."

He rubs along Donnie's length, slow at first, mostly letting Donnie rut up into his hand, using nice, long strokes that shouldn't be making Donnie as hard as they are. It's a little flattering. The hot coil in Raph's gut has become a flame, spreading heat through his whole body, making the back of his neck prickle. He lays messy kisses along Donnie's bottom lip, his chin, his cheek, his jaw, down his neck again. He kisses along his plastron until Donnie moans, then sucks and nips at the spot even though it might be that he twisted his hand just right at the head of Donnie's cock.

It doesn't matter. They're both out of their depth, here, and drowning, and it's not so bad, though maybe the pain will come later. Raph's always heard that drowning is one of the most painful ways to die--but going down like this, flushed and wanted, won't be so bad. At least they’re together.

Donnie's _clutches,_ suddenly, and his cock twitches in Raph's hand, and then he's coming between them, his come hot and slick on Raph's hand. Raph curses to himself; he wanted to see Donnie's face, wanted to watch him crest and come back down, but by the time he's looking, Donnie's face is closed up in embarrassment.

"S-sorry, I didn't--I mean, that was, uh--I don't usually..." Donnie trails off, then feebly adds, "Have sex."

"Shut the hell up,” Raph says. “That just means you get two rounds." It's supposed to sound cheeky or composed, but he's breathless himself and a little dizzy. He presses his fingers together, letting the come drip across them. If he had a handkerchief, this wouldn't be a problem, but--well, he'll make do. Raph sucks his fingers into his mouth, not particularly enjoying the taste but not caring because it's another part of Donnie and he wants his whole world to condense down to him. He wants there to be nothing left.

"Oh," is all Donnie manages to say.

Raph fists Donnie's bandana and pulls his head back, exposing his long neck. "Here." He licks a long line up the middle of his throat, pleased with himself when Donnie shivers; he's gasping for breath, still dizzy and weak-kneed, and he might topple over.

Raph can take care of that. He drags Donnie away from the wall, which can't have been too comfortable, anyway, and pushes him down into the driver's seat. Donnie shifts and rests his hands on Raph's thighs--tracing, as he does, the dark scars that mottle his legs, following the torn tracks. Raph groans. The chair's not big enough for the both of them, but fuck if he's going to stop, here; there's no time. Raph knows he's running out of it.

Maybe Donnie wants to study him, relearn his scars--the four of them used to know each other so well, could tell the stories of each other's scars, until they were eighteen and Donnie disappeared, leaving a wasteland behind. Their battles diverged. They forgot one another, lost among a dead city's rubble and smog so thick it became a taste it in the back of the throat. Raph can barely remember how he earned his own scars, now. It's all a blur.

He yanks Donnie into him and kisses him fiercely. Donnie's palms are too soft, even with their callouses; he pets Raph's body like it's something delicate. Like he’s a broken computer and he thinks he can fix what’s left. He drags a hand up Raph's side, under his coat, where Raph is a lit furnace. His other hand cups between Raph's legs.

Raph unsheathes his cock, eager, forgetting the world a little more with each passing second. There are no Karai Legions, here, no Utroms, no cameras, no police, no patrols, no labor camps or factories; there's the old leather of the driver's seat and the smell of dust and Donnie's sweat. There's Donnie's wet mouth, his warm breath, his soft hitching noises. The taste of his skin is not tainted by metal or dust. There's no fear, not even crawling at the back of his neck, just a desperate need that hinges on Donnie's body.

He grinds his hips, flush against Donnie, too hot in his coat. He kisses him deep, traces his tongue along his jaw and neck, but it’s not enough. Raph doesn’t have enough hands, can’t press close enough, can’t hold Donnie the way he wants. The leather seat groans under their shifting bodies.

It's not long before Donnie is hard again, his cock jutting against Raph's, thick and ready. Raph wonders, dimly, how old he is. Where he's been. While Raph hunted, was Donnie in stasis, waiting for the world to reach its breaking point? Who kept him from them, if not Donnie?

Then, Donnie takes their cocks in his hand, and Raph stops thinking altogether.

It's fast, over before Raph is sure what's happened. Donnie jerks them off with quick, twisting strokes, moaning as he does into Raph's mouth, his neck, his shoulder, muffled by his coat. The chair creaks as Raph fucks himself on Donnie's hand, as he drags their cocks together until they're both slick with precome.

The pressure and heat in Raph's gut unfurls like a storm cloud and then he's whiting out, shuddering against Donnie. His thighs quiver. He comes, and comes, and hangs on to Donatello like he is his last saving grace.

By the time he comes back to himself, Donnie is finished, too, gasping for breath. His head is thrown back against the chair, his eyes squeezed shut. His hand, still wrapped around their cocks, is trembling.

Raph slumps against him, too wrung-out to process it all. Whatever Donnie needs, he can give him, just--after he takes a second. As they relax against each other, reality seeps back in; tomorrow, they will storm the Shredder's tower. It's likely that they will die.

The knowledge is a heavy stone in his gut, but not so heavy he can’t carry it.


End file.
